


The Badger and The Snake

by DepravedAndUnstable



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Hufflepuff John, M/M, Oblivious John, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock, Potterlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Slytherin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DepravedAndUnstable/pseuds/DepravedAndUnstable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was a Slytherin pureblood in the same year who was obscenely smart, often outwitting the professors, and perpetually bored. It seemed the only time he was enjoying himself was when he was getting under Johns skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Badger and The Snake

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. One minute i was like "yeah John totally belongs in Hufflepuff" then the next this was all written out.

 

When it was time for John Watson to be sorted into his house, he wasn’t really sure where he would fit best. He was uncannily aware of himself and the world for an eleven year old, and he knew how much this single moment could affect his entire life.

He had his father’s bravery and courage, making Gryffindor a likely choice.

But he also had his mother’s intelligence and passion for knowledge, so he’d be just as at home in Ravenclaw.

He really didn’t mind which house it would be, but he knew he’d never be put into Slytherin. He wasn’t prejudice against the house, like most people, but he knew it was an ill fit. Slytherins, above all else lusted for greatness. John didn’t mind being ordinary and drifting into the background. He would be completely comfortable with the history books forgetting all about him. This was most certainly not Slytherin behavior.

In the end, the sorting hat put him into Hufflepuff. Thinking hard he decided it had chosen very well. More than bravery and greatness and even intelligence, John valued loyalty.

Yes. Hufflepuff was a good fit for him.

Unfortunately, Hufflepuff was not a very popular house. They were the bunt of most jokes and the target of nearly all pranks. John didn’t mind for the most part. He did his Gryffindor father proud by sticking up for his friends whenever he could. Naturally this made him a beloved target for bullies.

He seemed to have caught the eye of one bully in particular.

Sherlock was a Slytherin pureblood in the same year who was obscenely smart, often outwitting the professors, and perpetually bored. It seemed the only time he was enjoying himself was when he was getting under Johns skin.

Their first year it had been small things, like spilling ink on Johns notes or trying to trip him when he walked by in the great hall. Over the years it escalated.

Second year Sherlock had been particularly fond of setting of dung bombs on anything that belonged to John.

Third year the Slytherin stole all Johns’ homework and returned it to him with nearly all the available space crammed full of writing in red ink that essentially just told John how big of an idiot he was for putting this here or getting that question wrong. The joke was on Sherlock though because some of it was actually helpful and John tested as second in his class at the end of the year.

In fourth year Sherlock either threatened or bribed everyone in the school to ignore John. A few loyal friends (hello _Hufflepuff_ ) tried to stick it out, but John convinced them to keep their distance, at least outside the common room, when the threats turned into actual violence. In the end the only person who would partner up with him in class was Sherlock, and he just spent the time complaining about how easy it was and insulting John’s intelligence for not knowing all the answers already. He did almost none of the work, but was quick to point out when John was doing something wrong. Again, he tested behind only Sherlock at the end of the year exams.

In fifth year John had somehow managed to get himself a girlfriend. She’d been a shy Ravenclaw who’d given John her first kiss, but it had ended horribly and abruptly when Sherlock found out. He jinxed her forehead to sprout pimples that spelled out the word 'slut' whenever she got within ten feet of John. The jinx was of the geniuses own design and even the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor couldn’t figure out a way to break it. Sherlock refused to remove it until John promised to never date again.

Sixth year had been the worst of all. Sherlock somehow managed to slip a cursed ring onto John’s finger that was impossible to take off. The ring would tell Sherlock where John was at all times and made it impossible to hide from him. The library, the bathroom, the great hall, even the room of requirement, none were safe. Sherlock was impossible to shake and would show up whenever he was free (which was often as a week’s worth of homework took him minutes) to pester John and glare at anyone he was with. He tried to hide out in the common room, but apparently Sherlock could make the ring heat up whenever he wanted. Eventually the annoying pain would force John out to spend time with him.

Finally, by their seventh year John had had enough. Sherlock had refused to remove the ring before summer break, and as it was on his ring finger he’d had to have a few awkward conversations with his parents about sex and commitment. No. This year he was going to take a stand. This year he was going to finally get back at Sherlock for ruining his school life. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but somehow he’d have Sherlock Holmes on his knees begging him for mercy.


	2. The Snake Spots The Badger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer to write than it should have. Mostly because i am no genius and writing from the perspective of one is difficult. Can i just say that people who write lengthy fics from Sherlocks perspective, and go into detail of everything that he observes and how he observes them, are incredible and i wish i could be as smart as they are.
> 
> So anyway, this chapter just has a little snippet of present day and the rest is a flashback from first year.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

Sherlock sat alone in his family study, staring down at the worn picture in his hands with an absolutely ravenous expression. In the magiced photograph a tiny Sherlock had his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a tiny John. John was trying to shake off the arm and climb out of the frame, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him go, he refused to let his arm be removed from the fair haired boy. They would whisper angrily at each other for a length, while shooting strained smiles up at the real Sherlock. Finally, inevitably, John gave up. He gave a great, miniscule, sigh and stopped trying to slip away. His face was painted with annoyance while Sherlock’s smile turned smug. The picture had been taken in their fifth year, against John’s wishes of course.

The real Sherlock carefully stroked a finger over the photographed John. It had been three months since the end of their sixth year. He’d tried numerous times to write to the other boy, but the few replies he'd received back had been brief and filled with demands that Sherlock remove the cursed ring. John could pout all he wanted about it, but Sherlock never would. He’d slaved away for months making the ring he’d slipped onto John, as well as its twin which now rested on Sherlock’s own finger. It was a mark of his ownership, and if Sherlock could help it John would be buried with it still on his finger.

He missed him. Every summer it had become worse, the feeling that something was missing. That there was a gaping, empty hole in the middle of his chest. Like John would ripped off a piece of him before each summer break and every year the piece he took was bigger.

The summer couldn’t end nearly soon enough.

 

***

 

When Sherlock Holmes had first received his Hogwarts letter he’d felt nothing. Most children would have been elated or filled with disbelief or even just happy, but Sherlock was not most children. He had an impeccable lineage and a large intellect, of course Hogwarts wanted him. He’d been expecting the letter ever since Mycroft had gotten his and to him it was about as interesting as what was for breakfast that morning.

He did, however, experience some mild distaste when he looked at the list of books he was expected to bring for his classes. The most prestigious magical school in all of Europe had dreadfully low standards for their students. Sherlock had read and memorized all the books on the list by the time he was six.

How dull.

The school year hadn’t even started and already he was bored with it.

He’d gone with Mummy and Mycroft to Diagon Ally to get all his school supplies. Mycroft hadn’t let him get anything remotely interesting, only bought him the most basic potion ingredients and made him return a dark arts book he’d tried to sneak under his robes. It seemed his brother insisted his mind waste away at Hogwarts.

From the curriculum that would be covered Sherlock had expected little from his fellow students. They would be idiots at best, but when he’d stood on the platform of 9 ¾ he found them to be little better than animals. They shouted loud greetings and farewells while running about bumping into one another and elbowing to get good seats on the train. The other first years were even worse, looking around with wide wonder filled eyes and open gaping mouths as if this was all something to be excited about. Sheep.

Sherlock had ditched Mycroft at the first opportunity, when he was distracted by some tedious head boy business, and found an empty compartment at the end of the train. When it departed, and the familiar buildings of London began flitting past the window, he’d believed he would be left alone for the remainder of the trip. He was going to spend it plotting different ways to annoy Mycroft this year, but in the end his thought process was interrupted when John Watson slid open the door and stepped inside.

Of course, at the time Sherlock hadn’t known it was John. Hadn’t known how amazing and special he was, or how many sleepless nights he would devote to obsessing over him. He was only displeased that his solitude had been invaded.

“Oh. Sorry. I thought this one was empty.” Sherlock quickly glanced him over, taking in all the information his eyes could give him. It took only a second and then he went back to looking out the window.

The invader hesitated at the door. He was waiting for Sherlock to say something, an invitation to sit most likely, but he’d get nothing. If he wanted to stay Sherlock couldn’t stop him, but he didn’t have to be welcoming or even pleasant about it.

Finally the boy realized he wouldn’t get an invitation, but apparently decided he didn’t need one and sat down opposite of Sherlock anyway.

They stayed like that for a few minutes in complete silence, and Sherlock waited impatiently for the inevitable attempt at conversation from the boy. The sooner it happened the sooner he could shut it down.

“I’m John, by the way.”

Even his name was dull and ordinary. Inwardly Sherlock sighed.

“Sherlock.” He thought that would be the end of it. The disinterest in his voice had made it quite clear he wanted silence. But John wasn’t one to give up so easily.

“Is it your first year at Hogwarts as well?”

“Yes.” His curt answer was laced this time with irritation. Though it was short it spoke volumes and sent a much more direct message.

John did get the message, he could see it in the corner of his eye by the way his shoulders fell, but the boy was either stubborn or a fool, because he tried again.

“Any idea what house you’ll be in? I haven’t a clue.”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the window and fixed them directly on the boy across from him. He was done being civil about this.

“Uninterested.”

“What?”

“I’m uninterested in your conversation, your company, and above all _you_. I suggest you try speaking with someone else, preferably on the other end of the train.” Sherlock watched the boys’ hopeful face crumble and felt a sliver of satisfaction.

“Have I done something wrong? You don’t even know me.” The hurt in his voice satisfied Sherlock further. Not much longer now and John would run from the compartment in tears and Sherlock would be blissfully alone.

“Your name is John H. Watson. You enjoy flying. You had toast for breakfast. You’re a half-blood and have an older brother who is a squib. You know no one at Hogwarts and for the first time in your life are nervous you’ll have no friends, which is why you’re trying to talk to me. I know you well enough and I’m still not interested.” There.

Mycroft had always warned him that people didn’t like having their secrets shoved into their faces. Sherlock always did it anyway, of course, but it had made him more than one enemy. Most people got angry that he knew so much, some got scared, but no one, not ever, had smiled at him in wonder before.

“That’s amazing! Are you a seer?”

Ah. That was why. Sherlock refused to acknowledge the tight feeling in his chest. He instead sneered at the boy. “A seer? Thank Merlin no. Devination is a dreadfully inaccurate magic that almost always points one in the wrong direction. I didn’t _see_ anything. I observed.”

“What? You’re pulling my leg aren’t you? How on Earth could you possibly observe all that?”

Sherlock told him. He pointed out things about him, from his robes to the way he held himself to his name printed clearly on the handbag he was carrying, things that most everyone else would have overlooked.

Almost as much as having their secrets known, Mycroft had told him that people hated feeling stupid. He did his best to exploit that by explaining his every observation as though they should be obvious. Everyone lost their temper by that point, but Sherlock was shocked ( _Him! Shocked!_ ) when Johns smile only widened and the amazement in his eyes only grew.

“That’s incredible.”

“It is?”

“Yes! Of course it is.”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

"What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

They shared a look then. In later years Sherlock would look back and realize that that was the beginning. That moment when two eleven year old boys sat together on a train just looking at each other. That moment, that look, was when he started falling in love with John Watson. But it was only the beginning.

They’d ended up talking nonstop the whole train ride. John was generous and genuine with his complements. Sherlock was sharp witted and eager to impress. He caught himself wishing several times that they’d never make it to Hogwarts, that the train would just keep on going and he could be showered in John's praise forever.

But eventually they did arrive. The train pulled into Hogsmeade, and they were forced to shuffle off of it into the cold night. All the first years were gathered up and shepherded into boats.

As he and John sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the lights of Hogwarts grow steadily nearer, he couldn’t help but think that maybe the school year wouldn’t be so bad after all.

That hypothesis was disproved not an hour later, when he was sorted into Slytherine and John into Hufflepuff.

Over the following weeks, it felt as though he’d imagined the connection he’d felt with John on the train. The other boy had quickly made friends within his house and he barely even talked to Sherlock anymore, let alone told him how brilliant he was.

As he watched John grow closer to his friends and more distant to himself, Sherlock couldn’t stop the hot feeling of jealousy spreading from his chest down into his limbs. It consumed him until one day John passed by in the Great Hall and didn’t even glance at him. Angry and pitiful he stuck out his foot and John tumbled to the ground.

John looked up at him with a look of surprise and betrayal on his face, but the important thing is that his eyes were finally on Sherlock again.


	3. The Badger Approaches The Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic isn't dead just yet ;) sorry for the long wait.

John crumbled up the piece of parchment, not bothering to give it so much as a glance, and threw it at the bin in the corner of his room. This was starting to get a bit out of hand. Every summer, not counting the first, he'd received letters from a certain Slytherin and every year they'd increased in number, but this summer had just been ridiculous. He was receiving an owl at least every other day.

Certainly Sherlock had better things to do than write to him?

He hadn't even bothered to read half of what had been sent, if he was being honest. It was all the same thing over and over again. Sherlock would demand to know why John was ignoring him and insist that he receive a reply this time. He'd make some unkind deductions about John’s closest friends or he'd mention some mystery he'd been working on and make a few spectacular speculations (this part of his letters was actually rather good, and John couldn't help but skim that bit when it was a particularly interesting case). Then, finally, he'd insist that John join him at one of his family’s summer homes, the location of which seemed to change with every letter, for the remainder of the break.

Did he think John was an idiot? Well, yes he did, he'd said so enough times, but did Sherlock really think he was a big enough idiot that he'd willing subject himself to the other boys obsessive bullying during his few months of reprieve?

Hell no.

The summer couldn't last nearly long enough.

 

 

***

 

 

When second year had started, John had been naively optimistic. He and Sherlock had gotten on rather well during the first trip to Hogwarts. Something had happened, what exactly that was John couldn't fathom, which had set the young genius off on him. For the majority of first year he'd been the victim of some rather petty pranks, but he was positive that second year was going be different. After all, John had never done anything to Sherlock, and he was willing to forgive the last year if it meant he didn't have to sit at the back of each lesson just to avoid wet wads of parchment being pelted at his head.

They were _twelve_ now. Surely they could put such childish, pointless things behind them.

Oh how naive he’d been.

The train ride back to Hogwarts had been peaceful, if a bit dull. He’d reunited with his house mates and they’d all crammed into a compartment together, swapping stories of the summer. Once they’d arrived, they’d made their way up to the castle and settled into the feast that awaited them there. John spotted Sherlock sitting at the Slytherin table, alone as usual, and waited until he saw the young genius get up to excuse himself from the table. Some of his friends asked him to wait for them, but he brushed them off and dashed out of the hall, after the Slytherin’s swishing black robes.

He caught up to Sherlock quickly enough, at the steps that lead down to the dungeons. John grabbed the other boys shoulder, and jerked back in shock when a wand was shoved into his face.

“John?” Sherlock sounded surprised, and the wand lowered a little but still remained pointed at the Hufflepuff.

“Er, yeah. Mind putting that away?” His request was ignored, though, and instead calm calculating eyes dragged up and down his form, no doubt cataloguing a whole summers worth of information on John.

He allowed it for a time, until the silent scrutiny became too much. “Sherlock, I was hoping to talk to you.”

“I know.”

John chuckled uneasily. “Of course you do.”

“It was obvious. You wouldn’t have approached me otherwise.”

“Right. Look, I just wanted to say sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, even as his wand arm fell limply to his side. “Sorry for what exactly, John?”

“Well, I’m not really sure, to be honest with you.” He’d decided to be as sincere as possible. Anything less would be easily seen through and dismissed. “I just know that last year I did something to upset you, and I was hoping that we could put whatever it was behind us and start over. You know, be friends again.”

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side, and John could almost see the cogs turning, see the brilliant mind at work as it calculated and weighed his offer. It was a good minute before the Slytherin’s eyes cleared and really looked at John again. He hadn’t thought it’d be that difficult of a question, and he really hadn’t thought he’d be rejected.

“No.”

He was stupefied, completely at a loss for how to react, until Sherlock smirked and anger replaced his confusion. “And why the bloody hell not?” The Slytherin’s smile grew with Johns rage. “What? You got to many friends already, do you? Oh please, not even the Professors can stand you.”

“I don’t need friends, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his grin did falter. “And the professors don’t like me because I’ve forced them to realize their _complete_ incompetency.”

“No, the professors don’t like you because you’re an arse and go out of your way to make them look like idiots.” John sighed and unclenched his hand, he hadn’t even realized he’d made a fist until he’d been tempted to hurl it at Sherlock. “Look, if you don’t want to be friends then that fine. We won’t be friends. Just lay off the pranks this year, will you?”

This time he wasn’t surprised by the rejection. He’d been resigned to it.

“No.”

“Why?” It was _not_ a whine. He was John Hamish Watson. He did not whine. But it’d been very close. “What could you possibly have to gain by jinxing my text books to smell like old socks?”

Sherlock got a strange expression on his face, as if this was a particularly fond memory for him. It was not a good memory for John however, it’d taken him a week to find a way to reverse it, and in the mean time he’d scarcely been able to get any school work done without gagging.

“It's excellent practice.”

John felt his cheeks burn red, he felt his face scrunch up, and didn’t bother to fight it as his hands clenched once more into fists. “Practice? _Practice_? You go out of your way to torment me because it’s good practice! You-”

_“Immobulus.”_

John froze. His arms, his legs, even his facial features, he couldn’t move any of them. It was as though he’d been turned to stone. His eyes were trained directly at Sherlock’s face, which were now annoyingly smug.

“It’s good practice,” Sherlock repeated as he finally returned his wand to his pocket. “And I love that expression you make, the one you’re making right now in fact, so full of righteous fury. It's exhilarating to see. But honestly, I love even more knowing that I'm the one that put it there.”

Sherlock remained to admire his handiwork, taking an unneeded amount of time to commit it to memory, and then he turned and walked down the stairs, into the dungeon, leaving John frozen in place.

Slytherin’s walked by on their way to bed and most stopped to laugh and mock him. He managed for the most part to ignore them, instead allowing Sherlocks words to repeat on a loop inside his head. It wasn’t until nearly an hour later when Professor Hudson found him that he was released from the freezing charm.


End file.
